Are You Happy?
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: Consulting detective Arthur Kirkland has one last question to ask his now married & beloved ex-flat mate Doctor Jones before they say goodbye. Based on a quote from Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows. Characterizations & situations fully altered. Double AU


**Author Note: **For my bros—the one that encouraged me, and the one who is getting this as a present. ^^ It's a fail present, but it's the thought that counts!

I apologize. It's not quite _purely _Sherlockian, since this is really just a _long_ scene within probably a really long story about consulting detective Arthur Kirkland and his lover/flat-mate Dr. Jones, who writes the stories of Sherlock Holmes. Thus, an AU within an AU within possibly another AU? I haven't decided. But, yes, it isn't _quite_ a mirror-image of Holmes, which I hope will make no one cringe. I'm really sorry. I just wanted to get this out of my mind. I guess it is the only bad part of having things released fresh off the press. But thanks for reading! I'd appreciate some reviews, but no pressure.

**Are You Happy?**

Arthur is the best man.

Alfred is the groom.

And, of course, Liberty is the bride.

It's a good thing Arthur likes the future Mrs. Liberty Jones. He's almost _too _afraid of wondering what his mind might have conjured up for her swift demise if he didn't like her.

Alfred smiles at him, shaking in his excitement as Liberty meets him by the altar.

A part of Arthur feels guilty. He knows he only likes her because she's pretty, just the type of girl he'd always envisioned in Alfred's arms, with her ebony dark hair, hawkish gray eyes, and the most unforgettable set of bright lips. She has just the right set of child-bearing hips, teachings, and morals to be both a good wife and mother. Already that makes up for the fact that she's French. But Liberty is more than just beautiful and poised. She's bright. _Educated._

That alone consoles Arthur, because he'd always expected Alfred to be a father someday, and he'd wanted his children to be smart.

And though right now he is floored by the impending finality of the wedding celebrations, he at least pretends to amuse himself with the idea that someday he will be presented to them as Uncle Arthur. He predicts he will be forced to tell them funny stories about their father's time solving crimes with him. He will use many double-entendres. Yes, many, or enough to make sure that Alfred is always sent into blubbering fits of choking and splitting coughs and flushing cheeks. Yes. That will be Uncle Arthur.

"Arthur, the ring," Alfred urges.

Arthur is decisive that he will be strong. He lived alone once and had little need for human companionship. He doesn't need Alfred, much like it has now become obvious Alfred doesn't need him.

He stands by Alfred at the altar, completely forgetting Liberty as he smiles at his flat mate. Long, violin-playing fingers brush over the crisp collar of Alfred's dress shirt, down to the lapels of the black jacket where Alfred's buttonhole now lies dead.

"Arthur, the ring," Alfred turns to him, hurrying him with the curving grimace of his lips.

Arthur just nods and hands him the ring. It rolls off his fingers and down his palm. Perfectly timed.

If Alfred was any better at using his methods of deduction, he'd fear that in slipping the ring into Liberty's finger, Alfred might feel the warmth on the inside of the band and rightly assume that it'd been worn only moments before.

As Alfred is not, however, he has nothing to worry about.

**.**

"Now you're officially retired from the chase," Arthur breathes out, chortling out his laughter when he pats Alfred's arms. He curls his fingers around the dry carnation, plucking it out from his friend's lapel.

Alfred chuckles, _too_-blue eyes twinkling. There's an unspoken question between them, but neither is likely to answer it. Neither could possibly know when they'll see each other again between Arthur's many cases—the result of his rising popularity thanks to the Holmes stories—and Alfred's new husbandly duties, all of which must be met to the satisfaction of Liberty's every whim lest they become the victims of scrutiny again.

"You'll have to be next, old man. Can't be an eternal bachelor, Artie. You know people will start to prattle."

Arthur chooses to ignore his friend. People have always prattled. There's barely anyone that has not once questioned his ability to remain immune to the charms of the opposite sex. But at least they're not immune to his, and for the time-period that is enough to cover-up his crime: a shame, really, that it must be a crime to love. He turns to Liberty, setting a short kiss on her creased forehead. "My dear, pray take care of the good Doctor on my behalf. I know your union will be lasting, and I will be eternally indebted to you if you make of him a decent man and a happy father."

Liberty gives him only one smile, pressing his hand as he helps her slip into the cabbie. It's the first one she has ever given him. "I will. And you shall promise me to come visit us in the flat often? Alfred is bound to miss you."

"You could not get rid of me under _any_ circumstance," Arthur replies, kissing both her knuckles one last time. Though even Alfred could note the way green eyes geared towards him during the last statement. If Liberty is not oblivious, then she pretends rather well. Arthur is sure her acting career is for once serving her well. "I will be there just as soon as you send word for me. In me, you both have an eternal confidante and ally. And in Holmes, perhaps a literary ghost."

There's a bustle about them, many others trying to get close to the happy couple, though by now too drunk in happiness to approach without feeling the shame of interrupting the trio.

"You ought to stop flirting with Mrs. Jones," Alfred jokes, elbowing Arthur away from his wife. There's no mischief in his words. Sadly, Arthur can't see it. "Or I'll get jealous."

"Oh, would you now?" Liberty smiles and tries to pull her husband into the cabbie. "Jealous that Mr. Kirkland might take me away, is it?"

"Or perhaps jealous that this fair lady might take _me_ away," Arthur quips, joining in the joke with Liberty.

Internally, he cringes. Almost immediately he notes he wasn't as witty as he'd hoped, maybe. His tone had verged on bitter. He tries to make amends.

But her face has now turned sober, as has Alfred's. And it is only then he _confirms_ that his double-entendre has not been so clever.

Alfred practically shoves himself into the cabbie, tipping his head at Arthur one last time before whispering some rushed goodbyes and heading off to the train station. Everything becomes a blur between Liberty waving at her family, now all laughing or sobbing in the background.

Arthur almost expects Alfred will turn to him, maybe even come back. But when he doesn't, he reminds himself it is better this way.

When Alfred _does _turn to tip Arthur one last wave, he finds that Arthur isn't looking back.

**.**

It's a curious set of events that lead Arthur to seek out the Jones family mid-honeymoon. Though if ever asked, he will fully deny that any of the events were in _his_ personal interest.

At least no one can say Arthur has never had a penchant for the theatrical.

(Though, really, who could in between his many disguises?)

It's a good thing he's also never had an affinity for playing the bad guy.

**.**

Alfred had always known Arthur wasn't quite right in the head. He was missing a few gears here and there, surely, but not so many as to do something so malicious.

"I—did you just kill my new wife?" Dr. Jones panics, trying to feel even a faint pulse where there is none on the thin wrist of his now deceased wife. With a shaky finger, he traces the line of a blue lily vein, feeling the knobs of her knuckles. Slowly, the warm fingers of his other hand push together, trying to dip into the artery on her neck: _nothing._

"You make her sound like a _new_ toy, or trinket, or something other than a person," a thick British accent replies between puffs of smoke breathed out from _too_-red lips. There's a hint of amusement in the tone, and if Arthur's eyes weren't always so ever-green, Alfred might have written in his head that they'd flashed green with jealousy. Though perhaps he still could seeing as Holmes' eyes hardly qualified as green. "Do sit down, dear boy. You need not be so alarmed, though I suggest you pack. Have I not already told you to trust me?"

"You're a bastard, you know that?" Alfred deadpans, the pressure in his chest constricting all the more when his glare meets Arthur's innocent big eyes, big eyebrows, and soft skin. It's certainly not the look of a typical bastard. And for a moment he begins to wonder in whose image he fashioned Sherlock Holmes because it seems to be that the only thing Holmes and Arthur share in common are their brains.

_Took the chiseled knife and cut to perfection the mold of the mind—so abstract, free-floating madness trapped in an attic. _

Arthur seems to already second-guess what he's thinking. He sets his pipe aside, licking his lips nervously.

Alfred knows well he won't write about this: Sherlock Holmes need not suffer the consequences of Arthur's stupidity. At least whatever psychotic tendencies Holmes ever displayed were the result of being under the influence—sometimes of more than just his opiate poison.

_Thus, it must be said that even emotional forces have physical limitations. Emotional forces simply go as far as the influence will take them, and this is far enough, considering that influence is but transference of personality, lad. It is a circle—a fascinating change of forms, if you will. _

There are too many conversations, too many memories between them. Many he can't forget, but wishes didn't magnify in the tension of the room.

Because, well, in front of Arthur, Alfred can't deny that he crafted in Holmes and Watson what he wished his relationship with Arthur could have been—unattached in love and imbued in friendship. But maybe, then, he should have made sure to never attempt to transfer Arthur's personality to Holmes's body: the mistake of a surgeon pretending to be a writer. There's friction that will always remain between Arthur and himself, and he wonders if it ever appears in his stories as obviously as it appears to him now.

"Really, Alfred… your _new_ wife?" There's a manic tick to Arthur's foot as it taps the air, almost in time with the clouds of smoke leaving Arthur's lungs. Green eyes are looking at everywhere except Alfred. "As if you had an old one to differentiate from. Or perhaps you meant to imply you're bound to eventually get _another_ one?"

"Obviously seeing as you just _killed_ my wife, and I'm a widow, I'll have to get a new one," Alfred emphasizes the words, almost spitting at Arthur's feet, "you bloody bastard."

"Alfred," Arthur tisks, crossing his right leg higher over his lap. "Killed is a strong word. It implies I'm a murderer."

There's condescension in his every move.

Alfred isn't sure that he can keep himself from lurching at Arthur and punching him in the throat, maybe even using the left-over ashes in the pipe to blind his friend.

"What? You have the gall to deny it?"

"Oh, come now, don't snap," Arthur pouts. It's a genuine pout. And, well, Alfred is surprised to see it, deeming it almost _too_ unnatural. The detective punctuates his words, "I was just going to ask if you truly _had_ to get yourself a _new_ wife."

"Even if I didn't, I'm not moving back in with you. I'm not going to move back in and pretend that we're eternal bachelors and brothers in arms—"

"We never served together."

Arthur rolls his eyes, trying to avoid the sight of the woman, whose body now lies pressed against the divan of Dr. Jones's hotel room lobby. She lies there so peacefully, pink lightly inking her cheeks. He chews on the inside of his cheek, shoving the pipe away as he watches the jolting of muscles slowly spasming as she regains consciousness. It's but a thrumming of skin, but he is aware of it and that is enough.

"We've solved numerous cases together, and in the interim I have been shot at, wounded, and—"

Arthur just gulps, calmly recalculating his exit strategy. The opiate was supposed to last longer—much longer, long enough for Alfred to leave with him. But he'll be damned to fail.

He's never failed.

"I like the term brothers in crime better, don't you?" Arthur nods, words flowing rapidly and frantically. He stands, pulling Alfred away from the corpse. "It has a certain ring to it that reminds me of crime passionnel."

"You mean sort of like what you just did to my wife?" Alfred grabs hold of Arthur's arm, pulling him back just enough that their breaths mingle for a moment.

"Nonsense." The reply is smooth, honest. Alfred isn't sure whether to believe his friend or not. At least Arthur's whispering is rather odd. "It is true that I am fond of you, Alfred, particularly of having you in my flat, and, yes, I admit you've been sorely missed in my bed, but your ego needs some fine-tuning if you assume that your inexperienced _thrashing_ has ever earned you the right to accuse me of anything. Especially of endangering you or anyone you love."

"Well, forgive me for my thoughts," he wonders later where he got the strength to twist Arthur's arm until he could hear the joint begin to pop, "and my ego for assuming anything, but even you have to admit that a crime has certainly been committed here, Detective."

"I will admit to no such thing, Doctor. There is neither evidence nor even so much as a clue that might give you a when or how." Arthur bites hit bottom lip, pain evident as he feels the burning of skin and bone as they meet and bend. "A—and," he gasps out his breath, "and I will even stand to correct you: a crime of passion is not considered punishable murder, and while reproachable is unlikely to be rebuked by law. Now, pray, let go of my arm, poppet, or else I'll have to hurt you."

"Oh? So you will admit it to be a crime of passion in court? And then what? The court sends us _both_ to hang?"

"Let go of my arm, Alfred. Trust me when I tell you that there has been no murder here."

Their eyes meet. It's a fleeting realization between then that things have changed, more than either had expected.

The sweat at Arthur's brow is uncanny for Alfred. The fear and panic reflected in Alfred's usually serene blue eyes is startling for Arthur.

A soft groan sends their eyes flickering to the divan. Alfred drops Arthur, careless in his handle as he rushes to his wife, who gasps for air, touching her chest. She's gripping tight at the bodice of her dress, nails digging into the fabric.

Arthur takes the time breathes in through his nose. He tries to regain his composure, but it proves hard to remind himself that he _likes_ Liberty Jones. He _must_ like her.

"Liberty…" Alfred whispers, taking both her hands to kiss her knuckles. "Liberty. You're alright."

If he does not feel love for her, he at least feels gratefulness for her presence.

Arthur watches, rubbing at the juncture between his shoulder and arm.

She coughs into her shoulder. Slowly, her eyelashes turn upwards, "You saved me. Arthur. You."

Arthur shrugs, bringing out a cigarette. "A thousand apologies for my delay. I had not expected to lose sight of the other cabbie."

"Liberty, Arthur, he…"

"Your friend saved my life," she clutches at her husband, hiding her face in his firm chest. "They came just a few minutes after and…"

And there's the unspoken truth all of them now know: every moment Liberty's body remained unconscious was perhaps a moment when her mind had more room to process her surroundings. Including conversations - loud conversations, truthful, honest, unbound ones now left for the room's walls. And Liberty.

Alfred blanches.

"And every moment we remain here puts her in farther danger, Alfred. Mrs. Jones, I'm afraid I must borrow your husband but for the week. May I request permission to pluck him out of retirement? Surely it is for safety concerns, you understand."

The cigarette releases ashes onto the floor. Alfred and Liberty watch as the carpet burns, specks of gray distilling the colors of the tapestry.

"What if they come back?" the Doctor replies, letting his hands brush his wife's hair back.

She gives him a reassuring kiss on the cheek. Her breath is still uneven. "Darling, they think I'm _dead_."

So had he.

Arthur is momentarily pleased.

"I see you still do not trust me after so many years in my close company." Arthur turns with his cigarette, trying to hide the purse of his lips—the pout, really, that forms when he considers how poorly his plans have now been executed and how difficult it will be to retrieve Alfred from Liberty's company. "I've already contacted my brothers and Scotland Yard is bound to come within the hour to retrieve the body of Mrs. Liberty Jones. An obituary will promptly appear in tomorrow's papers. They will not come back."

Something is odd, but Alfred can't quite pinpoint it. Maybe he doesn't even want to.

"You should go," Liberty eggs Alfred on, shoving him towards the wardrobe. There's a lukewarmness about her love. Alfred can feel it. "I—I trust Arthur."

There's a shot of confusion Alfred feels at her words. But he nods, pressing both her hands before rushing to pack a quick bag, making sure to leave some of his clothes still in the dresser.

Arthur elbows Alfred aside. He grabs for a luggage case hidden under the bed, and fills it to the brim with the remaining clothes. Anything that belongs to Alfred cannot be left behind.

"You'd think it impossible that in a week you'd have forgotten years worth of careful training. Wouldn't it be suspicious if you'd left behind clothes in an attempt to run away? _Oh_, reminds me: I do hope you don't mind that I had to incriminate you in the obituary. I figured it'd be best if news were released that you'd been apprehended, leaving me as the sole target once again."

"Why do I have a hunch that even if I said I _do_ mind, it's a little too late, considering how deranged you are?"

"Ah, yes, well," Arthur grabs the bags, looking away, "for what it's worth, you're _welcome_ anyway."

"I didn't thank you."

"Surely you will."

**.**

They spend the evening in a hotel, having missed the intended train.

The room is small, poorly equipped for two people. The single bed in the middle of the room details as much.

Then again, Arthur has always been an insomniac. So, really, one bed is more than enough.

Maybe that's why Alfred isn't surprised when Arthur sits by the fire all evening, smoking. His forehead is creased the entire time. Sometimes he picks at a book from Alfred's handbag, but never opens it. Every time the book is set down, Alfred feels unwavering relief wash over him.

He can admit that his relief is also attributed to being away from Liberty.

But he refuses to confess that he's hurt when Arthur doesn't attempt – not even once – to crawl into bed next to him, much less try to mend things between them.

**.**

It's morning when they leave. Alfred is upset they didn't even get to have breakfast.

Inside the cabbie, Arthur looks out the window. His fingers tickle the curtain. He pretends he's trying to take a peek at the city one last time.

When Arthur complains one more time, Arthur lets his hand fall over the Doctor's empty palm.

Neither mentions it during the entire ride.

**.**

Once they're on the train leaving the city, Alfred slams his newspaper closed, folding it rather shoddily before stuffing it under his seat.

Arthur watches him amused. He loves the way in which Alfred's lips pucker when he's angry, and the look of his strong arms when he has pushed his shirt up to his elbows.

"There's no obituary, is there?" the American finally snaps, breathing through his nose.

"I was wondering how long it'd take you to deduce as much."

"And no one is after us either."

Arthur looks down from his own newspaper.

"Well, you're surprisingly calm considering circumstances, love."

Alfred shrugs, grabbing for his hand bag, from which he procures a small black notebook. He pulls out his fountain pen. The one Arthur gave him during his stag party.

Arthur nods at it, "taking notes for your next story, I see. And what will it be titled? Perhaps _Sherlock Holmes and the Crime Passionnel_? Maybe _A Scandal in Bath_? Personally, I'd be rather fond of _The Spectacled Lad_. Get it? – Like the _Speckled Band_, but—"

He bites his bottom lip, growing embarrassed that he can't elicit a response from Alfred. "I thought it was funny."

It's all he can offer.

Alfred scoffs, "You _would_. To answer your question, though: No, this book is called _Arthur Kirkland: On Being In Love with a Psychotic Bastard and Criminal Master-Mind_."

Arthur can't help the smile that spreads over his lip, the warmth that pools in his belly, so deep and penetrating to the point where he can't help the flushing red that inks all over his face and neck. And he admits to himself that he will never be as good at making Alfred uncomfortable as Alfred is at making him feel like he's dying and living all at once.

"Just, you know, adding to my list of titles. And my list of Arthur Kirkland quirks, too. This one, I should mention, is particularly childish. Even for you."

"Are you saying I am childish? I presume few would say Sherlock Holmes is childish under any circumstance."

Blue eyes settled on him. "Yes, but then again, I said Arthur Kirkland was childish. You are hardly able to call yourself Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes," Arthur's response is bitter. He crosses his arms, knowing all tact had left him at the train station, "and I suppose you can hardly have expected, then, that you'd have it as easy as Dr. Watson."

Alfred shifts closer to the edge of his seat, putting his journal aside. "And what's _that _supposed to mean?"

"It means nothing. If you can't figure it out, then surely I won't make it any easier for you. I'm through with making things easy for you—making it easy to wander into my life, making it easy to leave, making it easy to just run off with some prostitute of the stage and leave me to my own devices, knowing quite well that business is soaring and I am in most need of your help at this very moment!"

Arthur feels silly trying to still hide behind the mask of work. He's always had feelings. He's pretended for too long to not have them; hoping Alfred would be more at ease with their relationship in that way. But he knows that it's been disingenuous for not only him, but his companion, too.

He could recognize, if only vaguely, that when it came to Alfred his reactions were a scrambled mess, not conducive to proper work.

If Arthur had been more himself back at the hotel, he would have laughed for joy. It would have been a heartless reaction to a death—even a pretend death, but he felt guilty for it. But why should he when the alternative resolution of Liberty's death would have been so beautiful?—Alfred and he together again. Everything else was unbearable.

"You're seriously excusing your actions by saying you did it all because you need your assistant?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what are you trying to say? – Why go through all the trouble?"

"I can't tell you yet."

A silence permeates between them. Arthur isn't sure if there's ever been a silence so penetrating as the one that lines their relationship now.

After a while, Alfred scoffs. "Why can't you tell me now?"

"Because that wouldn't serve my purposes, Alfred."

The reply is simple, and short.

But for Alfred, it implies many things.

"Of course it wouldn't," he mocks, moving closer to the window. "Everything is always about you, isn't it?"

Arthur sighs, pretending to read his newspaper. "No. You can believe that if you'd like, but most of the time, including this once, it is about _you_."

**.**

The train takes them to Sussex.

And Alfred instantly knows where they're going.

He's been anxious for years to meet Arthur's bees. Arthur has always been a magnificent bee-keeper, sometimes taking short breaks and returning with plenty of honey to keep Alfred happy for months.

For all of Arthur's ability to charm women, to charm him, Alfred has always been curious about Arthur _the bee-charmer._

**.**

There is no case. He'd known that since they stepped on the train, but he'd expected at least more mystery. But there's no mystery.

It's strange, being the recipient of such transparency.

Alfred isn't used to sitting under the shade of a tree at sunset with Arthur. They never did such things before.

It makes him feel almost as if he is being courted. He's waiting for the flowers. Instead, Arthur returns from the beehive with a large, thick pair of honeycombs hanging from a stick. A few bees swarm around his hand, but he seems content to be in their presence.

"That's nonsense," Arthur interrupts his thought, giving him a lopsided smile. He sits down next to him. "You only court those you expect to keep forever. I cannot keep you because you now belong to someone else. It'd be disingenuous of me to pretend this is anything _but_ a goodbye."

Alfred blinks, unsure of how he feels about that. He searches for Arthur's hand, but the detective has both well protected, holding the honey and bees at bay.

"So, this is a goodbye, then?"

"I _did_ plan your stag party, and fear it was a mess—I'd been too busy to invite anyone, and we ended up with my brothers, Francis, and his friends. We ended up drunk, and you ended up with a handful of me on your lap instead of the trapeze girls from the Diogenes club. A shame, really. Francis informed me they were quite, uh, fetching." Arthur sighs, offering Alfred a piece of honey. "I figured you deserved at least a retirement party. But, again, not being the social type, I had no one to invite except my bees. I hope they've been acceptable company."

Alfred chuckles and rubs at his chin. "You're serious."

"Always. I truly did assume you'd had enough of my brothers."

"Sometimes I think you're mad," Alfred shakes his head. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against Arthur's cheek. He's beautiful, his Arthur. Brilliant, too. And most thoroughly awkward. "But it's a logical type of madness, I think."

"The curse of seeing _everything_, maybe?"

"Maybe."

Arthur nods, rubbing at his cheek. He's never been fond of Alfred's cheek kisses. They always feel sticky, like sugar sprinkled over his skin.

And he decides that if everything that was _not_ Alfred and him was unbearable, now the opposite is the case, and everything that is _them_ feels like death.

**.**

"So, are you really keeping me for the week?" Alfred asks Arthur the next day, having returned from sending a telegram to his wife.

Arthur looks up from Alfred's diary. He's been leafing through the black book all morning. "No. Of course not. I just figured you'd like the week to yourself, away from the constraints of marriage. Though you are welcome to return to Liberty tonight, if you wish it."

"Assuming she won't try to hang me."

"There's been no crime committed. The courts can't find you guilty."

It's a joke. But they both understand the implications.

Alfred blinks. "You don't think adultery a crime?"

Arthur shifts an eyebrow, chuckling. "Adultery? You most certainly did not commit adultery with me. But if you say you are guilty of the crime, give Liberty my card. I'd be most interested in hunting you down for her."

**.**

Everything comes to a climax in an unexpected way.

It happens at the train station just the next day.

"Just answer me this," Arthur palms Alfred's arm, holding him in place. They are sitting on a bench, looking out at the flustered crowds trying to lift their luggage and wave goodbye to friends. The whistling sound of the train alerts them to how brief their goodbye must be. "Are you at least happy now?"

Alfred feels the question is unfounded, if not bizarre. There is little that can make him happy about the situation. "I suppose so."

"At least as happy as you might have been in Bath in your honeymoon?"

Alfred's throat dries up. The question's context changes to the point where he recognizes in it a worthy exploration of his hopes—for the future, and for the present. But he can't answer without incriminating himself. So he shakes his head, trying to suppress a bitter smile. "You're a bastard, you know that, don't you?—Waiting until now to bring this up. In public no less."

"I just want to know if you're happy. Few would consider that worth the label of bastard, Alfred."

"Because few know you. I can _hardly_ be happy when you pretended to kill my wife, scared her half to death, tricked Scotland Yard into assuming we were off on some wild chase—"

"I wasn't so cavalier about the whole affair. I called on some actor friends. Needless to say, I didn't use public services for my own favor."

"You dragged me away from my honeymoon," Alfred continued, drowning out Arthur's words. "And _now_ you have the indecency of asking me if I'm happy. Do I look happy to you, sitting right here in a crowded train station about to say goodbye to you?"

Arthur purses his lips, trying to contain his smile. "Maybe you do."

"Maybe? You think I'm happy to be leaving you?"

"Then why did you do it?"

Arthur's been waiting weeks, months to fire that question.

"Do what?"

Alfred blinks with such sincerity, he isn't sure he can bear to push on.

"Get married, Alfred. Why did you do it?"

"I'm not playing this game, Arthur. Anyway, my train's on the last call now."

He stands to leave, but Arthur grabs for his arm, pulling him back so harshly that he falls onto the bench. Arthur's cane lies intertwined between his legs, now holding one of them hostage by pressing the wood beneath his knee. Alfred is well-aware now that if he is to move, Arthur will rather break his leg than not receive an answer. And for once it hits him that he's been playing with a madman for too long.

"Why? I just want to know, Alfred."

Blue eyes skitter away. "Why did you stand by me when I did?"

"Because Liberty is a good woman, and hardly deserved anything less than a proper wedding, and perhaps a good man. And you asked me to."

"That hurts. No _because you are a good man and deserved a good woman._"

"You are hardly good, Jones. Much less deserving of a good woman."

"But I'm a good enough man for Liberty to deserve?"

"You'll miss your train." Arthur grins, releasing his leg by removing his cane. "I said she deserved a proper wedding, didn't I? I never said she deserved you. I stood by you because you asked me to, and I didn't stop the wedding because I'm a gentleman. But I'll be damned," he smiled, the words grounded through his teeth as a few passengers passed by them, too close for comfort. "I'll be damned if I ever admit she deserved you. Or that you deserve her."

"Oh?" Alfred sighs, grabbing his bags. "So what do I deserve?"

"Who you deserve, my dear Alfred—who. But I expect you will deduce that yourself."

Arthur stands, extending his hand out to Alfred.

Alfred takes it, gripping it tightly. He is pulled forward, warm breath ghosting near his earlobe.

"And when you do," Arthur releases him, licking his dry lips, "Well, surely you can deduce _that_ too."

_**The End**_


End file.
